


all your kind they're coming clean

by tasteofshapes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bathing/Washing, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Pining, Pining Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofshapes/pseuds/tasteofshapes
Summary: It’s the small grunt of pain that echoes through the empty locker room that gives Malfoy away.The air in the locker room is still heavy and damp with steam, and it clings uncomfortably to Harry's skin; condenses into tiny drops of water that run down his bare chest. He wipes it away absently, still listening, and hears it again.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 337
Collections: HP Suds Fest 2020





	all your kind they're coming clean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunnyeclipses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyeclipses/gifts).



> **Prompt S22** : Draco has injured his arm after a particularly brutal day of Auror training. Harry happens to be the only other person in the locker room that can help him wash his hair.  
> Maya, I hope I've done your prompt justice and that you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to the fest mods, Bella and Tacky for the patience, the extensions, and for running such a fun fest!
> 
> Finally, massive thanks must go to my amazing betas and fellow writers: Lily, who not only cheerleaded but also helped me get the boys out of the locker room, and Lep, who provided some incredible alpha'ing and helped me whipped this into shape. Without you guys, this would have been a very different (and much lesser) story.

It’s the small grunt of pain that echoes through the empty locker room that gives Malfoy away. 

Harry stands before his open locker and stops in the middle of shucking off his trousers, his ears pricked and listening. It’s just gone past six on a particularly brutal day of Auror training, and almost everyone has had their shower and cleared off for the pub. The air in the locker room is still heavy and damp with steam, and it clings uncomfortably to his skin; condenses into tiny drops of water that run down his bare chest. He wipes it away absently, still listening, and hears it again. 

Across the rows of lockers that stand between them, Malfoy sighs, a soft sound that stretches out into a muffled groan. Harry can hear the edge of pain that laces through it. Malfoy had taken a particularly brutal throw during the last round of their sparring. He had twisted in the air in an attempt to land on his feet, but had badly misjudged the angle and had ended up landing on the floor instead of the mat. There had been an audible crunch where Malfoy had slammed shoulder-first against the hard floor.

Malfoy’s face had turned white when he finally picked himself up, but he had refused all of Harry’s attempts to heal him. “I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of healing myself, Potter,” Malfoy had snapped, his face pinched and strained, and Harry had stepped back. 

This had been a recent development, this thing where Malfoy grew touchy every time Harry tried to heal him, where he preferred to heal his own injuries after they sparred, where Malfoy flinched and tried to hide any display of weakness around Harry. Harry had tried not to let that sting, even though the knot in his chest tightened a bit more every time it happened. They had been partners for four years now, and he had thought that they were long past their differences. It had taken some time for them to work through it, but they had eventually settled into an easy camaraderie. Malfoy, once he had relaxed around Harry, had turned out to be cheerfully chatty. He was the sort of person who tended to have an opinion about everything, and, left unchecked, would happily go on and on about all manner of things. Harry had expected it to be annoying, but instead had found, to his surprise, that he quite liked this version of Malfoy after all. Occasionally though, Malfoy seemed to catch himself and go quiet. This tended to happen if the conversation veered too close to Malfoy’s personal life, so while Harry was up-to-date on every single piece of gossip that went on in the coffeeshop that Malfoy frequented, however, he had very little idea of what Malfoy got up to in his free time.

But this thing—where he avoided Harry, and didn't allow Harry to heal his injuries—this was new, and Harry didn't know what to make of it. This was at odds with the Malfoy he knew, the Malfoy who had always played up his many little injuries, who had cheerfully complained as he made a giant production of his bruises and cuts, and who made Harry buy him a round at the pub in compensation. And here they were now, with Malfoy insisting that he was fine, except that he clearly was not.

Before Harry knows it, he’s walking down the rows of empty lockers and over to the next aisle to where Malfoy’s locker is.

“Malfoy,” Harry calls out as he turns the corner. He stops short at the sight of Malfoy, with his shirt rucked up halfway, trying to pull one arm through the sleeve of his shirt. Harry sucks a quick breath in through his teeth, and Malfoy twists around awkwardly at the sound.

Malfoy immediately tugs his shirt down, but not before Harry sees it: a pattern of bruises starting from somewhere underneath Malfoy’s shirt, which creeps halfway down his left side. The bruises blossom against his pale skin like a poisonous flower in varying shades of green and yellow.

Harry’s voice, when he finally finds it, comes out angry and clipped. “Who did this to you?”

Malfoy doesn’t answer for a moment. “No one,” he says evasively. “I did it to myself.” At Harry’s incredulous look, Malfoy sighs and elaborates: “Every time we spar and I hit the wall, or land on the mats.”

“But I heal you afterwards!”

“Ah.” Malfoy shifts slightly, his eyes darting from side to side. “Yes, well. Alright, there might have been something that I _might_ have neglected to tell you, but you are not to be cross with me, and you are not to go storming off seeking revenge.” He waits for Harry’s nod of acquiescence before he continues, “Remember old Mr Henley?”

Harry’s face scrunches into a frown. “From last week? Who almost cursed our noses off when we tried to confiscate that cursed jewelry box in his attic? Of course I do, it took ages for us to talk him down. Why?” 

That had been a tiring afternoon. Old Mr Henley had not only been impossible to talk to, but was also almost blind, and had been utterly convinced that he had been besieged by thieves out to rob him of house and home. He had shouted bloody murder as he sat in his armchair and fired off curse after curse, and it had been a challenge for them to try and talk sense into him when they had spells whizzing past their heads every few moments.

“Yes. Well, turns out his aim is a lot better than I thought was possible for a withered wizard pushing a hundred. He managed to set off one of the wards with one of his spells, and I touched it before I realised.” Malfoy gives a humourless laugh. “Delayed spell damage. It affects the healing process. The Healers say it should clear up within the week.”

“Why didn’t I notice this?” Harry says, more to himself than to Malfoy. He frowns as he tries to replay the events of that day, but he can’t recall the wards going off, and he certainly doesn’t remember Malfoy ever indicating that he was in any way injured, which, he supposes, really says a lot about his observational skills. 

Malfoy overhears this anyway, and shrugs his uninjured shoulder. Harry’s scowling now, worry thrumming through him like a live wire as he looks at Malfoy and sees how tired he looks. He doesn’t know what expression his face makes, but Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together, and he’s overly cheerful— _too_ cheerful—as he chatters on in that way he does when he was avoiding a subject, “Well, we were kind of busy trying to dodge all the spells flying our way. And I only brushed against the wards, so it wasn’t obvious even to me until afterwards, when some of the cuts didn’t heal properly. It was deeply fascinating of course, I’ve never encountered spell damage that took effect like that, but—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Harry cuts him off, voice low. It echoes oddly against the slick titles of the locker room, and something catches in his stomach as he looks at the marks on Malfoy’s body, at the new bruises that layer on top of old ones like a bad tattoo. It’s more vicious than worry, this strange feeling gnawing at him, and it squeezes the breath out of him. Harry has to fight the urge to break something. 

Silence stretches before them like an ocean as Malfoy looks at him, his face suddenly unreadable and expressionless. Finally, he says, very quietly, “Because it’s not a big deal, Potter. It’s nothing life-threatening, and I’m completely fine, as you can see—”

“Malfoy, your back says otherwise. It looks like you fought a Troll and lost. And if it wasn’t a big deal, you would have told me from the start.”

“Fine!” Malfoy throws up a hand in exasperation. “I didn’t want you to worry, alright? You have better things to focus your attention on. For example, like getting a shower and then pissing off to the pub like the rest of our colleagues.”

“Is that what you think I would do?” Harry demands, stung. “Leave my partner alone and in pain and get a drink with my mates?”

Malfoy’s mouth twists in a grimace, but he doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look at Harry. He stares intently at the floor like it holds the secret to the universe. Hurt, Harry turns around and stalks back to his locker. He shucks the rest of his clothes in record time, grabs his towel and heads straight for the shower, never once glancing over at Malfoy.

Harry fully intends to take a quick shower and Floo straight to the pub to drown himself in drinks like Malfoy had presumed, but the hot water turns out to be a soothing balm for his tired shoulders and his bad mood. It washes away both the dirt and the irritation that settles over him, and he doesn’t think about Malfoy, or about why he’s so irrationally annoyed at Malfoy keeping things from him. Harry stays underneath the hot spray, his mind a blissful blank, until his fingers begin to wrinkle. 

When he finally steps out, a blast of hot steam curling outwards from the open door and a towel wrapped around his waist, it’s to the quiet dripping of the taps and a deserted locker room. He takes a quick glance down the row, but the doors to each shower stall are open, and there’s no sight of Malfoy. 

Disappointment rises up and sits heavy in his stomach as he walks back, until he rounds the corner and sees Malfoy sitting on the bench in front of his locker, his left arm tucked protectively against his chest. Malfoy’s still in the same clothes as before, his right arm resting across his knees and his head bowed low as he curls into himself. 

“Malfoy?” Harry says, surprised, and Malfoy looks up.

“Potter,” Malfoy replies, and stands up, wincing. Before Harry can stop himself, he takes an instinctive step forward, hand outstretched. He catches the underside of Malfoy’s left arm—his bad arm, Harry realises too late—and any lingering awkwardness between them is swept away by concern as Malfoy swallows back a gasp.

“Sorry!” Harry says immediately, dropping his hand. “Sorry, sorry, are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says, but his face has gone white again. “I’m fine. Just a bit… sore. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. That was unfair of me.”

And just like that, Harry’s annoyance evaporates like it was never there. “It’s okay. We’re good,” he says, and means it. 

Malfoy gives him a small smile of relief. “Good, because I’m just about to ask you for a favour. I was wondering if I could depend on you for some assistance. It turns out that I’m—ah, having quite a bit of difficulty moving my left arm.” 

Malfoy says it casually, but Harry can tell that he’s unhappy about his current state. Harry says at once, “of course. Anything you need.” He’s still damp from the shower, towel still wrapped around his waist, but he doesn’t give a second thought to his state of undress. “Let me see.” 

They maneuver Malfoy back onto the bench and Harry gingerly runs a hand over Malfoy’s left shoulder to check for bumps. It doesn’t escape his notice how Malfoy goes quiet and still under him, body tense against his touch.

“There’s no need for that,” Malfoy says, as Harry unlocks his locker and fishes out his wand to perform a basic diagnostic spell. “I already know it’s a sprained shoulder.”

“It doesn’t hurt to double check,” Harry says, even as the spell confirms what Malfoy’s saying. What he thinks but doesn’t say is, _Just in case you downplay anything_. He tries a basic healing spell, but it’s as Malfoy said: he’s taken spell damage, and the healing spell won’t catch. It glows soft and golden even under the harsh fluorescent lights, but it lingers over Malfoy’s skin instead of sinking in, before finally dissipating into mist. 

“Leave it, Potter. It should sort itself out by next week,” Malfoy says, but sits patiently as Harry runs two more variations of the healing spell. He chuckles quietly as Harry hisses in frustration when none of them take hold. 

“How can I help?” Harry says finally. “What do you need?”

Malfoy blows out a breath. “I might need some help taking a shower,” Malfoy admits, sounding grumpy. “I need to wash my hair, and I can’t quite lift my arm above my shoulder.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Harry says at once. “Molly’s taught me a whole variety of cleaning spells.” He casts without thinking, and Malfoy’s left freshly scrubbed and blinking indignantly up at Harry. 

“Dis-gus-ting,” Malfoy says, pronouncing each syllable with careful exaggeration. “Potter, I said I wanted to _take a_ _shower_ , not be Scourgified like a common dish towel! Ugh, this is foul. I don’t feel clean at all, and if your spell mucked up my hair, there will be hell to pay.” He runs a tentative hand through his hair, scowling.

“Oh,” Harry says, flushing once the full implication of what Malfoy said hits him. He looks around a bit uselessly. The locker room is as empty as it was a half hour ago, and it’s just him and Malfoy, and how would this work? Was Malfoy intending to strip off all his clothes? “Here? Now?”

“Well, getting a shower sometime today would be good, yes,” Malfoy drawls, and it’s not fair that he looks vaguely amused while Harry’s suddenly flustered at the idea of Malfoy and too much skin. “And here is fine. It’s as empty as it’ll ever be.”

“Here?” Harry says once more, looking doubtfully around the empty locker room again. At any moment, anyone could walk in and see Malfoy in all of his naked glory, and Harry could not conceive of any universe in which this was an acceptable proposal in any way, shape, or form. 

He tries to put his thoughts into coherent words that actually make sense. “Why don’t we go back to Grimmauld Place? I think I have a bathtub in one of the bathrooms.”

“You think you have a bathtub in one of the bathrooms,” Malfoy repeats, deadpan. “Potter. That’s… there’s so much to unpack right there. First of all, haven’t you been living there for, oh, I don’t know, the last three years? Why haven’t you gotten the house on your side yet? Secondly, yes, there is a bathtub in one of the bathrooms. In two, actually, if I remember correctly. But now I’m wondering what the house has been offering you if you’re not even sure. Third, I seriously doubt the cleanliness of your bathroom if you aren’t even sure of what’s actually _in_ _it_. And you expect me to bathe there? Are you _trying_ to punish me? I thought you said we were fine.”

“We are fine, Malfoy, I just think a bathtub would be easier than both of us standing under a shower. Look, I’m fairly certain I have a bathtub, and whatever its state, I’m sure it’s nothing a few cleaning spells can’t fix.” 

“No,” Malfoy says firmly. “Absolutely not. If it’s a bathtub that you insist on, then fine, let’s head back to mine. Unlike you, I’m absolutely sure that: one, I have a tub, and two, that it’s of an acceptable standard of cleanliness, because _I_ clean it myself.”

“Fine! Lead the way!” Harry says. “Let’s go right now, shall we?”

Malfoy looks slightly taken aback at how fast Harry assents. He slants a quick glance at Harry, his eyes sliding down Harry’s body, which reminds Harry that he’s still shirtless and clad in only a towel. He’s suddenly unsure of what to do with his arms, and crosses them defensively over his bare chest as Malfoy’s lips quirk up. 

“Not to be accused of being a prude, but unless you intend on scandalising half the Ministry, you might want to get changed first,” Malfoy says, mirth in his voice as he gets up and turns away. “I’ll give you some space so I don’t impinge on your virtue, shall I?”

“I’ll meet you at the Apparation point in ten minutes,” Harry calls out, his face heating up even as he shakes his head at Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy just lifts a hand in a short wave as he walks away. 

* * *

They Apparate into the grounds to see Malfoy Manor light up like a Christmas tree, lights twinkling one by one up the drive. Gravel crunches under their feet as they make the short walk up to the Manor from the Apparation point, and the heavy double doors swing open silently to reveal the parlour, brightly lit and empty. The rooms beyond that are dark, and there’s the feeling of an expectant pause as they step over the threshold, as if the whole house is holding its breath. 

Harry wonders briefly at it before Malfoy says, “the Rose Bedroom, please.”

A trail of lights immediately flick on, going up the large marble staircase that curves up to the second floor. 

“Wow, your house-elf is fast,” Harry says, impressed. “I couldn’t even feel their magic.”

“The Manor doesn’t have a house-elf anymore,” Malfoy says, as they climb the staircase. “Tilly went with Mother to our villa in France. Mother needed taking care of more than I do, and Tilly was happy to go. She’s been serving the Blacks since Mother was born, you know.”

“Oh. I thought—”

“—that a house-elf is tied to the house? No, that’s a common misconception. House-elves devote themselves to a family, and a family is more than a house. Although interestingly, there have been recorded instances where if the house has been passed down through the family for several generations, house-elves begin to consider the house as an extension of the family. Probably because of the familial magic. It’s a poorly researched topic, although extremely fascinating.” 

As Malfoy chatters on, they follow the trail of lights down the corridor, which ends in two lit wall sconces set on either side of a door that swings open as they approach. The lights in the bedroom flick on by themselves, and Malfoy crosses the threshold and immediately sneezes. The guest bedroom has clearly been unused for quite some time, and while it’s not covered in a layer of dust, it isn’t exactly up to Malfoy’s proclaimed standards of cleanliness either. 

“Here?” Harry says, as Malfoy leads the way to the bathroom.

“It’s perfectly adequate,” Malfoy insists, although Harry doesn’t miss the way Malfoy furtively murmurs a quick cleaning spell under his breath. That done, Malfoy turns the tap—or tries to. It doesn’t move. He frowns, then tries turning it the other way around. “Huh.”

“Don’t you have another bathroom?” Harry says. 

“Yes, but hang on, just give me a minute—” 

It goes on for more than that. Harry spends a few minutes watching Malfoy struggle with an immovable tap before he finally gives up, glaring at it like it had mortally offended him. 

“You traitor,” Malfoy hisses, and Harry raises an eyebrow before he realises that Malfoy’s talking to the Manor. “Fine! The Blue Room then!”

Harry didn’t think it was possible, but the bathtub of the Blue Room is equally unusable. To Malfoy’s apparent relief, the taps turn. To Malfoy’s obvious disgust, no water comes out, no matter which direction he twists the taps. 

“Oh for—” Malfoy snaps, visibly frustrated. He glares upwards at the ceiling, but the Manor does not respond.

“How about your bedroom?” Harry says. “Do you have a tub in the bathroom?”

Malfoy glances at him, mouth twisting unhappily before he finally admits, “Yes. But my room is not fit for public consumption at the moment, Potter, you understand, a man’s room is his most private domain, and—”

“Malfoy, I really don’t care about the state of your room,” Harry interrupts, holding up a hand before Malfoy can embark on another one of his tangents. “I just care about whether there’s a working bathtub in your bathroom.”

“Fine. Alright, my bedroom then.” 

Malfoy’s obvious reluctance makes Harry curious about exactly what Malfoy’s got hiding behind those closed doors. His interest only peaks when Malfoy stops before a closed door that doesn’t automatically swing open like the others. Malfoy draws a quick sigil in the air with a finger, and the tell-tale shimmer of a ward goes down. Finally, the door swings open to reveal the universe. 

Harry gapes as he follows Malfoy in, staring. A constellation of stars are scattered across the walls and ceiling of the room, so numerous that the room is lit with an almost unearthly glow from their twinkling. A luminous orb hangs motionless in the middle of the room, filling the room with a soft golden glow.

“It’s our galaxy,” Malfoy says before Harry can ask. “I went through a phase where I was really into astronomy at one point, and Mother redid my room as a Christmas present for my fourteenth birthday, and I know, I know, what twenty-eight year old still has astronomy wallpaper tacked up in his room, right?” He gives a short, embarrassed laugh. “Anyone would have taken it down ages ago, but it took Mother a tremendous amount of effort to do, and anyway, I like the reminder that there’s something bigger than us out there, and I guess I should probably stop trying to salvage my reputation here.”

“No, Malfoy, it’s amazing,” Harry says, when he finally finds his voice. “This is incredible.” He looks around, awed, and Malfoy relaxes a fraction. Curious, Harry reaches out a hand to touch a star, then thinks the better of it and stops, his hand hovering inches away from the wall. 

“Go ahead. You can touch it if you want,” Malfoy says, decidedly warmer now, and Harry glances back to see him smile. The star that Harry’s fingers brush against abruptly flares up, before the words ‘Sagittarius A’ appears next to it in spidery writing. As Harry watches in wonderment, the words melt away to be replaced with basic information about the constellation it belongs to, the right ascension, the declination, the mass, and distance.

“It’s incredible,” Harry says again. Beside him, Malfoy beams at the praise. 

“It goes on like that for a while. I used to spend ages trying to touch every one and memorize as much information as I could. It’s how I got top marks for Astronomy, you know. Well, that, and also because I am a natural genius.”

“Malfoy, you massive nerd,” Harry says, laughing, and Malfoy flushes scarlet. “No, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. This room is amazing, and I’m not making fun of that. I’m making fun of you actually being, well, smart. Although that’s kind of impressive? I, mean, er—” Harry flounders and stops, trying to put his jumbled thoughts in order. 

“Yes, alright, Potter, you can stop trying to explain. I get what you’re trying to say, although your communication skills really leave much to be desired. It’s fine, I’ve uncovered your dark secret: you’re hopeless. And you’ve uncovered my dark secret: I am extremely uncool, and if you tell anyone about this, I will murder you in your sleep and frame Ron Weasley, so!”

Harry’s laughing again because Malfoy is ridiculous, and there’s a small smile playing on Malfoy’s lips. He shakes his head fondly at Harry, says, “Come on,” and walks across the room to open a side door that leads to the bathroom. 

The bathroom is large, and done up in lots of muted greens and greys. A large pond with numerous lily pads is painted onto the walls, and a tiny frog hops off a painted lily pad and into the pond with a splash as they walk in. Harry’s gaze is immediately drawn to the tub, which takes up the length of one wall. It’s a soaking tub large enough for two people, and deep enough that he thinks he could swim in it, with steps cut into the side and leading up to the tub. 

“It’s nothing compared to what you’ve seen before, I’m sure,” Malfoy says a tad nervously, and Harry can only shake his head. 

“Nothing compared to what I’ve seen before? Malfoy, this tops _anything_ I’ve ever seen before.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, flushed pink with pleasure. He smiles at Harry again, the uncertainty dropping away, and something warm blooms in Harry’s chest. He watches as Malfoy turns away and busies himself with turning on the taps and checking the temperature of the water as he readies a bath. There’s all manner of bottles lined up against the side of the wall that Malfoy takes and empties in. Teal-coloured foam begins to rise, streaked through with hints of silver.

Once he’s done fiddling around with his concoctions, Malfoy stands and begins to pull up the hem of his shirt, clearly intending to strip. 

“I should, erm, give you some privacy,” Harry says, but doesn’t turn around. He’s sure the tips of his ears are turning red. 

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Potter, there’s no need to concern yourself with protecting my maidenly virtue,” Malfoy says, huffing out a laugh. But he winces and stops, his shirt bunched up around his chest. His face is strained with discomfort. “I think you might have to cut this off me. I can’t lift my arms up.”

“Let me see,” Harry says, stepping forward. He pulls his wand out of his wand holster, and a quick spell slices through the shoulder of the shirt. Malfoy pulls it off, crumples it into a ball and tosses it to the side, then finishes stripping down. 

Harry carefully averts his eyes, even though Malfoy’s right, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before in the Auror locker rooms. But it’s somehow different, here in Malfoy’s large bathroom where painted dragonflies flit across the walls as steam begins to rise up from the tub. 

Malfoy enters the bath with a splash. After he’s sure that Malfoy’s fully submerged, Harry allows himself to glance over. Malfoy’s body where he leans against the side of the tub is covered by a thick layer of foam and bubbles. 

“The shampoo’s over there. Mind the mascot, he’s a saucy one,” he says, lifting one soapy arm to point, and Harry retrieves the bottle. It’s a French brand, and the mascot on the front—a shirtless man who keeps running his hands through his long, flowing black hair—gives Harry a little wink and a cheery wave. Harry settles himself on the top step, and sits at the edge of the tub. There’s a pitcher of water at the side, and Harry’s surprised to find a slight tremble in his hands when he picks it up. 

“Can I–I’m going to wash your hair now,” he says. Below him, Malfoy nods and tilts his head back until it rests against the rim of the tub. 

Harry carefully sluices water over Malfoy’s hair, and takes his time to lather the shampoo in his hands. Malfoy’s shampoo smells like lavender and pine, and the scent of it fills the room as Harry gently works his hands into Malfoy’s hair. 

“That’s nice,” Malfoy says, leaning back into Harry’s hands, his eyes falling shut. “I wonder if this is how cats feel? Maybe that’s why they’re always asking for scratches and tummy rubs, the pampered creatures. We spoil them too much.”

“ _You’re_ pampered and spoiled,” Harry says, but there’s no bite in his words. He keeps working his fingers into Malfoy’s hair, running them carefully through the silky strands as he says contemplatively, “You drove me crazy in school, you know. You were the first kid I’d ever met from the Wizarding World, and I wanted so badly to impress you.”

Malfoy barks out a laugh at that, his eyes flying open as he looks up at Harry. “ _You_ wanted to impress _me_? Potter, _I_ was trying to impress _you_. And then you turned down my offer of friendship, so naturally I had to declare you my lifelong nemesis. Although, look at how well that worked out.”

Harry’s hands go still where they’re tangled in Malfoy’s hair. He says carefully, “Any regrets?” 

Malfoy says firmly, “None, Potter, so don’t be all weird about it. This is why I didn’t tell you about getting hurt, you know. You’d get all blotchy and irritated and terrify half the people we’d meet.”

“I would _not_ ,” Harry mutters, but the knot in his chest begins to loosen at Malfoy’s words. He makes sure to be extra gentle as he starts massaging Malfoy’s scalp. Malfoy hums at that, and stretches out a bit more until he’s completely relaxed under Harry’s hands, his eyes falling shut again. 

“Oh, you would,” Malfoy insists dreamily, sinking a little deeper into the water. He sounds slightly drunk as he continues, “Robards came to me once, you know. Said that as I was your partner, could I please talk some sense into you, because getting hurt was practically a job requirement, and he couldn’t have you flying off the handle every time I got so much as a scratch.” 

“Did he now,” Harry murmurs, his mind racing. _Huh_. That was—well. He couldn’t very well yell at his boss for being far more perceptive than Harry gave him credit for, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be annoyed about it.

Harry doesn’t say anything though, just kneads his fingers down Malfoy’s scalp, circling his fingertips against where he thinks the pressure points are on the nape of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy’s skin is warm, and he doesn’t want to stop touching Malfoy. Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind. He tilts his head slightly to the left, giving Harry better access, and Harry keeps at it until the shampoo suds in Malfoy’s hair begins to dissipate.

“Lean forward,” Harry says, as he picks up what’s left of the pitcher of water. He rinses the shampoo off, watching as the soapy water runs down the curve of Malfoy’s back. Malfoy’s all bony and bruised, the marks on his body somehow even starker under the glow of the bathroom light. It makes Harry’s heart clench painfully.

His voice comes out slightly huskier than usual when he tells Malfoy, “All done.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Malfoy says. He turns around, pushing his wet hair out of his face, and shoots Harry a lopsided grin. 

“Erm, I’ll just let you get cleaned then,” Harry says awkwardly. He doesn’t know where to look when Malfoy’s naked and wet and smiling like that, and pushes himself to his feet. 

He hurries down the steps as Malfoy calls out, “Hang on, just give me a second,” and so Harry’s left standing in the middle of the bathroom, facing the opposite wall to give Malfoy some privacy and listening to the splash of water. 

“Hand me a towel, would you?” Malfoy calls out again, and Harry has to bite back a sigh as he reaches for the white fluffy towel hanging off the rack. He would suspect that Malfoy’s doing this deliberately, except that he knows Malfoy isn’t—this is just the way Malfoy is. He turns to find Malfoy walking down the steps, naked and dripping, and quickly shoves the towel in Malfoy’s direction and turns away again. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy says, sounding amused. The next time when he taps Harry on the shoulder, he’s dressed in a white long-sleeved button down and loose grey pants. His hair is still wet and dripping, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind as he rolls up his sleeves.

“Your hair’s still wet.” Harry points out the obvious. 

Malfoy shrugs. “Couldn’t lift my arms to towel it dry. It’s fine. You want something to drink? Tea, something stronger?”

“I could, erm. I could help you with that if you want.” Harry doesn’t know why his face heats up, and he isn’t sure whether he’s blushing, but Malfoy shakes his head. 

“No, I’ll pass on that drying charm that you’re clearly thinking of, Potter. Have you learnt nothing? Charms like that are far too crude and interfere with my shampoo, and then where would I be? Back to having dry straw for hair, and maybe some people would be fine with that, but I hope you have come to realisation that I am _not_ one of them.” 

“I was going to offer to use a towel, you prat.” Harry grabs the damp towel that Malfoy’s thrown onto the rack, and shakes it in Malfoy’s direction as proof.

“Potter, why are you brandishing the towel at me like it’s a threat?”

And Harry’s sure that he wasn’t, not really, but now that Malfoy’s said it…. “Come here and let me dry your hair,” Harry says, laughing as Malfoy backs away, eyes wide.

“Potter!” Malfoy says warningly, but he’s laughing too. He allows himself to be cornered and dragged to sit on the edge of the tub, then proceeds to loftily issue instructions on how exactly Harry should go about drying his hair. 

“Pat it dry, don’t rub it. That causes breakage,” Malfoy says, sniffing, and Harry rolls his eyes but does as Malfoy says and carefully pats his hair with the towel until it isn’t dripping anymore. Being so close to Malfoy when he’s fresh out of the bath is intoxicating, and because Harry’s lost his mind completely, he continues patting Malfoy’s hair until Malfoy says, “Thanks Potter, I think that’s as dry as it’ll get.”

“Right,” Harry says, a bit uselessly. Disappointment rises in him now that he’s done what Malfoy’s asked him to and he no longer has a reason to be here. He puts the towel back on the rack as Malfoy stands, running a hand through his hair, and fully expects to be dismissed.

Then Malfoy says, “Come on, let’s have a drink,” and Harry cheers up immediately. 

They go down to the living room, the lights flickering on and lighting a path before them as they move from room to room. The fireplace obligingly roars to life as Malfoy collapses into an armchair, and Harry takes a chair opposite him. 

“What’s your poison?” Malfoy says, nodding to the trolley of drinks that rolls up silently between their chairs. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Harry says, and Malfoy fixes them three fingers of Breakfast Firewhisky on the rocks. Harry doesn’t actually like Firewhisky, but he accepts the glass all the same. The ball of ice tinkles against the side of his glass as he swirls it, watching a tiny whirlpool form in the amber liquid. 

They sip their drinks in contemplative silence, until the ball of ice melts and Malfoy finally says, “Potter, I don’t mean to pry, and you’re more than welcome to tell me to fuck off, but do you… do you need any help with Grimmauld Place?” Malfoy sounds tentative, and Harry catches Malfoy sneaking a glance at him over the rim of his glass. 

“Oh yes,” Harry says immediately, “yes, please. I mean, that is, if you have the time.” He grins at Malfoy, inordinately relieved for reasons that he can’t explain. 

“I do,” Malfoy says, perking up. “We used to be regular visitors when I was young, and I remember quite a bit of the layout and how the rooms look like. The house should still remember me, I think. Old memories, you know, and anyway, I’m related to a Black. Grimmauld should recognise loyalty, if nothing else.”

That triggers a memory of something Malfoy said, and Harry asks curiously, “What did you mean when you called the Manor a traitor earlier?”

Malfoy flushes and doesn’t answer immediately. He tries to cover it by taking a sip of his drink, but there are splotches of pink rising high on his cheeks. “Ah, I didn’t think you’d pick up on that.” He clears his throat several times, and Harry waits him out. Finally, Malfoy says, “Sometimes, the Manor acts in what it thinks is best for the inhabitants of the house. It is not always correct, mind you! But these magical houses tend to have a—well, not a _mind_ , exactly, but intentions of their own.”

“And the Manor thought that it would be best if you… showed me your room?” Harry says slowly, trying to work it out. 

Malfoy busies himself with staring into his glass as he mutters, “50 points to Gryffindor.” It’s muttered low enough that Harry’s fairly certain that Malfoy didn’t intend for him to hear, but he did.

“Because it wanted me to see…” Harry frowns. Malfoy remains silent. Then it clicks. “It wanted me to see you?” Malfoy resolutely does not look at him, which is how Harry knows he’s hit the nail on the head. “It wanted me to see you. All of you. The _real_ you.”

Malfoy avoids answering by abruptly throwing back his head and draining his glass in one go. He emerges from the bottom of the glass coughing as the Firewhisky goes down, but that doesn’t deter Harry, who says, in a testing sort of way, “Malfoy, do you… is it possible that you might… feel something for me?”

Malfoy coughs some more until his entire face is pink, and doesn’t reply. He’s still not looking at Harry, but it doesn’t matter. Harry knows he’s right. Still, he has to summon every ounce of his Gryffindor courage to say, “Because I feel something for you, you dolt,” and it’s worth it, to see Malfoy’s gaze snap up, to see an expression of wonder spread across his face. 

So Harry says it again, “I do, too,” his voice gone soft as warmth blossoms across his body, laughing as Malfoy begins to smile back, bright like the sun. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've liked this, feel free to [rebog the tumblr fic link](https://tasteofshapes.tumblr.com/post/635174572434587648/hp-sudsfest-fic-all-your-kind-theyre-coming) or pop over and [come say hi](https://tasteofshapes.tumblr.com/)!


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